— You know… I was never a boy like the others.
Inside a moving train, the air was thick with the smell of blood and death. Corpses littered the floor of the carriage, piled up without order, lifeless, their eyes fixed on nothingness.
Sitting calmly amidst the carnage, Red, dressed in a black suit and red shirt, lit a cigarette as if this horrific scene had nothing to do with him. The flame briefly illuminated his indifferent, almost empty face. He took a slow drag, as if the bodies around him were nothing more than ordinary objects, like all the others.
Next to him stood a young boy, motionless, his gaze hollow, drained of all emotion. He stared into the void, clutching a once-white hood now stained with blood. He did not cry.
— I never knew my parents… As far back as I can remember, I've always been left to myself. So I don't know what it feels like to lose someone you considered a role model.
Those were the words of the man.
The little boy stood slowly, revealing no emotion on his face. With tired steps, he began walking toward the next carriage. Red watched him go, cigarette in his lips, unmoved.
The train's neon lights flickered with its movement as the boy continued forward. The automatic door opened in front of him, and he stopped abruptly, facing a pool of blood.
Then, memories came rushing back.
The train passengers—all trapped in the same carriage. His mother holding him tightly in her arms. Bandits wearing masks, talking among themselves. And then, without warning, one of them turned, aimed at them… and fired.
His father leapt at the last second, struggling with all his strength to wrest the gun from the man. But another bandit intervened, striking his father with the butt of his rifle, knocking him to the ground. Another weapon was raised. A gunshot rang out.
The boy's eyes opened, brimming with tears, confronted by the tragedy.
Back in the present, he still stared at the dried blood on the floor.
Red approached slowly and knelt to meet him at eye level. The boy looked at him, his expression still empty, detached from the world around him.
— I may not know what it's like to lose a loved one… but I know what it's like to feel responsible for a crime you didn't commit.
Red lowered his gaze to the white hood, now blood-stained, that the boy clutched.
— And I also know what it's like to hold back your tears and emotions, punishing yourself for something you didn't do.
The boy's fingers tightened around the garment, the last remnant of his parents. Hot tears began to roll down his exhausted face.
— Mom… Dad…
At that moment, Red's expression seemed to soften for the first time in years. He gently placed a hand on the boy's head.
— They're gone… They'll never come back.
— And I… I did nothing. I couldn't protect them…
Red said no more. The boy threw himself against him, sobbing into his clothes. Red made an instinctive move to embrace him… but stopped at the last moment, letting him go.
A few hours later, the train had come to a stop. Police had arrived, and bystanders surrounded the station entrance, watching authorities remove the bodies, one by one, unrecognizable.
The inspector in charge of the operation observed the corpses pass by, his gaze cold as ice.
— Inspector, what do you think?
The chief of police stood beside him. The inspector stepped into the wagon, examining the mutilated scene and the perpetrator's method. For him, there was no doubt.
— Red… He was here.
The chief raised an eyebrow.
— It's unlike him to eliminate people outside his jurisdiction. He usually doesn't target innocents.
The inspector replied immediately:
— I'm not saying he's the one responsible. Just that he was here… and that he killed the criminals. But criminal or not, it's still a massacre.
A few hours later, in a hotel room, a lightly dressed woman was stitching Red's wounds.
— You really didn't go easy this time… I wonder what they did to make you this angry.
He didn't answer. He remained silent.
Marianne didn't press further and changed the subject, turning her gaze toward the young boy, now lying on a bed, asleep and exhausted, still clutching his father's blood-stained garment.
— Well… can you at least tell me who this kid is?
— He was on the train with his parents. They didn't survive.
His voice was dry, direct.
— Do you know where he's from ?
— From what he told me, he's originally from India. But he refused to give his name.
Marianne approached the sleeping child and gently placed her hand on his forehead.
— Poor boy… Do you think we should leave him in an orphanage?
Red closed his eyes and sighed.
— Among those who captured the train passengers, I recognized one. They worked for the organization. He saw me protect this kid.
If we leave him alone… you know exactly what will happen to him.
The young woman sighed as well.
— Well… then we'll have to give him a name.
Red stood and stretched.
— Then… why not Zain.